


And The Lights Went Out

by fanficaf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M, PAIN. thats it, Post Finale, after camlann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficaf/pseuds/fanficaf
Summary: He imagines Arthur now, how he would tell Merlin to quit dilly-dallying and get on with it. Maybe he can be strong for Arthur. Maybe he can pretend that Arthur’s still with him, in spirit, in memory.He holds out a hand as if Arthur would grasp it, provide him the strength that he so desperately need right now, and looks up. He opens his mouth and tries again.And immediately closed it again.





	And The Lights Went Out

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic! Here goes nothing.

Merlin walked as if in a trance. His eyes were bloodshot; wide as a deer caught in headlights. Their tears had dried, leaving tracks amid the grime and dust on his battle-worn face. His gait was stiff and his shoulders wary, as if expecting an ambush. He walked on, not knowing when or how he had reached here: the throne room, where Guinevere sat atop her throne, her right arm empty and her face stoic, anticipating what was to come. That was Gwen through and through, brave and kind, putting Camelot before herself. What a fine Queen she made, Merlin thought.

 

His gaze shifted to the vacant throne next to hers. It wasn’t the first time the chair had been empty. After all, Arthur couldn’t be attending court all day, everyday. Merlin had seen it waiting for its King plenty of times before. His vacant stare grew more intent, his breath shortening. He could almost pretend that this was one of those times.

 

Almost.

 

But even the very air in the room seemed to echo the stillness, the silence mourning the absence of its golden king. This chair would forever be waiting and Ar—HE would not fill it again. Never again will his body fit that throne, the throne from which he governed his beloved people, from which he spoke of honour and valour and justice. Had Merlin never noticed before, how perfectly Arthur had fit in that chair, how bright and _blue_ his eyes looked when he ruled? Had he really never pondered upon the regal, righteous figure his king cut across this seat that seemed to be made for none other? Arthur’s absence was not a punch in the gut - Merlin did not feel the breath knocked out of him. Because he couldn’t breathe in the first place. It was like drowning underwater, with your lungs burning and begging for air and your body going heavy and helpless and your mind simultaneously numb and frantic. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. If Arthur would just stand here for a second, just look at Merlin, just, just fucking _turn up_ already, then maybe he could breathe again.

 

Merlin looked around wildly, turned this way and that, because surely Arthur was just round the corner. He had to be. He _had_ to be! He will prance in like his usual prat self and muss up Merlin’s hair and call him idiot, and, and… and he will, he—  

 

His eyes are burning and his head hurts and he can feel that vein in his forehead throb. He knows Arthur is gone, dead, lost to him, taken away. Yet he stands not quite in the middle of the passage, the phantom space on his right reserved for one never to stand there again. His vision is blurring and it feels like someone has reached inside him and is closing their fist around his heart. His chest feels tight and the pain spreads to his limbs. His mouth works open once, twice, but no sound comes out. He knows he has a duty to perform. He is to deliver the news that the Queen already infers, but he must say it all the same. If he could _just_ get his throat to work! It feels scorched and something like a lump sits on it. With legs that as shaking wilder than a lone leaf on a windy day, he walks upto the Queen, not sparing her a glance for he’s afraid he’ll break down completely, and turns to face the awaiting crowd. 

 

He imagines Arthur now, how he would tell Merlin to quit dilly-dallying and get on with it. Maybe he can be strong for Arthur. Maybe he can pretend that Arthur’s still with him, in spirit, in memory.

He holds out a hand as if Arthur would grasp it, provide him the strength that he so desperately need right now, and looks up. He opens his mouth and tries again.

 

And immediately closed it again. 

 

It was a wonder how Arthur never caught on to all the magic. Merlin was never good at lying, especially to himself. He cannot pretend that Arthur is here, for his absence is too sharp a sting, too harsh a reminder to ever allow him to soften its blow. He doesn’t know what Arthur would have said to him right now because he is not here to say it anymore. And he will never again tell Merlin to do his chores or to polish his armour or to much out the stables. He will not coax out smiles from him when Merlin is down, or tease him or bully him again. And Merlin feels this loss deep within his very being. The way Arthur would bite his lip to stave off laughter when Merlin insulted some visiting noble under his breath, for Arthur’s ears only. The latent and surprised huff of laughter he would reward Merlin with, when he came up with some new insult for his king. The way his smile would soften at the edges when Merlin smiled back. The boyish and carefree stance when he would joke with his knights. Merlin felt that he could catalog every one of Arthur’s expressions.

 

He had never been intimate with Arthur, yet knew Athur more intimately than anyone else, even Gwen. He had loved Arthur more deeply and more ardently than he could ever express. What had his mother and Kilgarrah said? Two sides of the same coin. And now that other half had been snatched away from Merlin, like the destiny they were promised to share. Like the time he was supposed to have with Arthur. He had once told Arthur that he had come to Camelot to find where he fit in, his place in the world. He now realised that it was never Camelot at all, but Arthur, that was his home. 

 

There was nowhere left to go now. How could he ever stay in Camelot now? Athur’s absence screamed from every nook and canny. He would forever wait for Arthur to spring up from this hallway or that, to put his arm around his neck or box his ears or, or, or— 

 

His face crumples as his shoulders curl up. Heaving sobs wick his frame and his hands unsuccessfully attempt to hold him together. His legs give out, knocking his knees to the ground. His head is hurting and the vein is throbbing right out of his forehead and his everything feels like complete and utter _shit._ He will do anything to have him back. For Arthur to berate him again, throw things at him, manhandle him, anything, anything! Please just give him back! His body is aching and it feels like this pain will never cease. Merlin does not want it to. Arthur’s absence gnaws at him like something worse than hunger and he absolutely need him right now, right here, just please, just once more, just one more ‘Arthur and Merlin’ miracle! His head is splitting and distantly he hears a voice that sounds suspiciously like Gwen’s telling Gaius to take care of him. This is the last thing Merlin knows before he succumbs to the pain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a review! All criticism welcome.


End file.
